


Local Rebels

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Olympics RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M, Medal kink, Smut, Snowboarding, Sochi Olympics, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:32:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mark first hears about the ban on gay propaganda in Russia, he’s coming down from one of the greatest orgasms of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Local Rebels

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in the 24 hours since the men's slopestyle finally. It's really 4k of smut, with some feelings thrown in, inspired by [this picture](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/post/76169011963/marianne11-this-pic-is-so-cute-i-love-them) and [these](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/post/76138561801/share-the-mountain-with-your-friends) [photo](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/post/76168945204/actual-puppy-mark-mcmorris) [collections](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/post/76169124428).
> 
> Title from Emily Haines’ song _Anarchy in the UK_.
> 
> There is some discussion in here of Russia's Anti-Homosexual Propaganda laws. No disrespect is meant to Russia or her people, just to this one law.

When Mark first hears about the ban on gay propaganda in Russia, he’s coming down from one of the greatest orgasms of his life. He’s naked, sheets pooled around his ankles, still raw with the aftershocks as he leans across Staale to light up the last of the joint and grab his buzzing phone.

It’s a text from Craig, saying, simply “ _bro, you’ve gotta stop being gay for 2 wks_.” 

His brother’s an idiot, so he ignores the warning, dropping his phone to the bed and turning to run a finger down Staale’s side. “Hey,” he murmurs, offering out the joint. It’s probably the last time they can smoke before the Games, and all the drug testing that goes with them. He’s going to take full advantage of it.

“Cool?” Staale asks, raising his head slightly and squinting at Mark.

“Yeah.” Mark grins. “Everything’s awesome,” as he scoots down the bed to take Staale’s dick into his mouth.

***

The whole not-being-gay-in-Russia thing is, apparently, a little more real than he’d like it to be. His family members, teammates, buddies keep sending him links to articles with titles like:

“Russia’s Anti-Gay Law, Spelled out in Plain English.”

“How does Russia Enforce It’s ‘Anti-Gay Propaganda’ Law?”

“Olympians at Risk Under New Russian Anti-Gay Law.”

“Putin Could Use Olympics to Make Anti-Gay Statement.”

Mark ignores them, for the most part. He’s pretty busy preparing for the World Tour, focused on training and mental strength and developing new tricks, rather than where, and with whom, he plays with his dick.

“Dude, I’m not saying you have to stop, just, chill. For a few weeks.”

Mark glares at Craig, half because he can’t believe Craig is buying into all this bullshit, and half because they’re in Banff and the sun is shining pretty brightly off the slopes. Mark folds his arms over the tip of his board and rests his chin on them.

“I’m not gonna, like, make out with Staale on the medal podium.”

Craig raises an eyebrow. “You’ve done stupider things.”

“Keep saying things like that, and I might just do it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

Craig’s not the most reliable source of advice where Mark’s concerned, but then Chris Witwicki, Team Canada’s slopestyle coach, pulls Mark aside on the first day of the X Games. They’re at a coffee shop on Main Street, surrounded by fans and competitors. Mark isn’t a generally recognizable guy, and this is probably the only group in the world who could name him on sight. He assumes the choice is deliberate.

“So.” Chris starts, blowing at his coffee as they find an empty table.

Mark pours a packet of sugar and a soy creamer into his cup. “Yeah?”

“I’m not going to ask you to hide your lifestyle,” Chris tries, then cringes. ‘Lifestyle’ is a loaded word, one that has plagued the mainstreaming of snowboarding as a legitimate sport for as long as it’s been around. Snowboarding, the legalization of marijuana, the hippy movement. Chris shakes his head. “Forget I said that, yeah?”

“Sure.” Mark takes a sip of his coffee. It’s still a little bitter and he opens another sugar packet.

“Let me start by saying that Team Canada does not support all this anti-gay propaganda crap.”

And, there it is. Mark probably should have guessed that that is what this meeting is about. “Course.”

“But, well,” Chris leans across the table, looking strangely intense. It pulls Mark up short. “Hell, we just don’t want you to get arrested, okay? So, stop being an asshole and listen to your brother.”

“Um-” Mark swallows an extra large sip of his coffee and coughs, sticking out his tongue to get the bitter taste out of his mouth. “Right.”

“Great.” Chris claps him on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. There’s – a lot of people,” he frowns, and Mark has to laugh because, seriously, this whole thing is completely ridiculous.

***

By the end of the X Games, Mark has bigger things to worry about than his conversation with Chris. Mostly, his broken rib and the way it stings every time he moves his left arm or twists his torso or turns his head.

“You think too much,” Staale pronounces, tapping Mark’s head. 

“Hmm?” Mark glances at him. “Yeah, sorry, buddy.” He pulls his beanie lower down his forehead. It’s cold in Aspen, even in their hotel room. Or, maybe all the heat in his body is focused in his rib.

“Mmm.” Staale looks thoughtful, then, “stay still.”

“Not going anywhere,” Mark grumbles, motioning to his rib, wincing at the movement, then wincing again.

“Idiot,” Staale laughs, fondly, as he starts unzipping Mark’s sweatshirt. There’s nothing underneath except a white strip of bandages, and Mark shivers. “Okay?”

“Cold.”

“Take care of that,” Staale promises, running a gentle finger over the edge of the bandage. His touch is soft, slow, warm, and his face is strangely serious. “Only two weeks. To Sochi.”

As if Mark hasn’t been counting. “I’ll be able to compete.” Staale still looks uncertain, and Mark, slowly, reaches a hand out to run along Staale’s Mohawk. “The doctors say so. Gotta trust them, eh?”

Staale nods, finally looking away so that he can trace his finger along the waistband of Mark’s sweatpants, and then, slowly, easing them down his thighs. “You stay still, yes?” He asks, again, and Mark takes a deep breath that pinches in his chest.

“I don’t know-” Mark isn’t sure he’s capable of staying that still when Staale is breathing, hot and wet, against his dick, but he’s pretty willing to try.

“Good,” Staale nods, bracing his forearm against Mark’s hips to keep him still, and then wrapping a hand around Mark’s dick with a few experimental tugs.

“Fuck,” Mark murmurs, struggling to keep his hips straight, pressed against the bed. It feels different, surrendering to Staale rather than rising to meet him.

“Good,” Staale repeats, bending his head down to breath hotly against the head of Mark’s dick. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Mark sounds strangled to his own ears, and he assumes it’s because it’s hard to breath without moving his lungs too much. He’s probably deluding himself, but Staale never has to know.

Staale lowers his mouth and Mark has to close his eyes. It’s so good like this, warm and dark and wet and loose and he’s not at all in control. His entire world narrows down to the points where Staale’s body touches his. 

Staale’s fingers, wrapped tightly around the base of his erection, a point of pressure that Mark struggles to focus on. 

His tongue, flattened against the underside of Mark’s cock, pumping in a slow, deep rhythm that Mark’s dick picks up, sending pulsing waves of pleasures up his spine. 

Staale’s forearm, a band of warmth pressed tightly from hip to hip, and Mark’s skin feels dry, taught, itchy, hovering on the edge of discomfort.

Mark is close already. The pain in his rib turning to pleasure as Staale tightens his lips and starts bobbing his head. Mark reaches, blindly, to press his fingers into Staale’s Mohawk. It’s pretty ineffective, but Staale seems to get the point, anyway, as he puffs out his cheeks and takes Mark so deep into his throat that Mark forgets everything but the bright spark of his orgasm.

When he opens his eyes, Staale is still at the end of his bed, his hand in his pants and the slippery sound of skin on skin filling their hotel room. “Hey,” Mark calls, his rib throbbing but feeling more relaxed than he has in weeks. “Come up here.”

Staale obliges, but jerks away when Mark reaches out a hand. “I’m good,” Staale promises, moments before his body freezes and he comes against Mark’s side, staining his bandages.

Mark laughs, shallow little laughs that barely reach his ribs. “Thanks. That was exactly what I needed.”

Staale grins hugely, rising up on his elbow to kiss Mark on the nose. “See, I know you.”

Mark would never argue with that, and he does feel pretty blissed out. But, as he settles into the sheets and prepares for a pretty uncomfortable night of sleep, he wonders, “Has your team told you not to be gay? In Sochi?”

Staale turns his head, his eyes gleaming in the dark as he stares at Mark. “I’m not gay.”

“Ahh?” Mark has no idea what to say to that.

“I am sexual,” Staale clarifies, then shrugs, his shoulder lifting slightly off the mattress. “Fuck binaries. And if I like fucking you most, who needs to know?”

“Huh.” Mark’s gonna try that reasoning, next time Craig or Chris give him a hard time.

***

Sochi is pretty amazing. The double toilettes and the pillow shortage and the stray dogs have nothing on standing in the Mountain Cluster, looking out over the Caucasus Mountains and the Sochi 2014 signs and the Canadian flag hanging off the balcony of his room.

“Awesome, yeah?”

Mark glances over to see Sage Kotsenburg leaning against the wall, starring at the same view Mark is. “For sure,” Mark agrees. “What are you-?”

“Oh.” Sage’s face lights up and Mark has the crazy thought that Sage looks a lot like Thor. Acts a bit like him, too. “Wanna chill?” He holds up a plastic grocery bag that Mark is sure is full of contraband. “I have mad snacks.”

“Um.” Mark hasn’t spent a lot of time with Sage in the past, but he’s been moving up in the world rankings and Mark knows that Staale has a soft spot for the kid. “Sure.”

“Dope.” Sage straightens up, but doesn’t open the door. He grins, a little guiltily. “Left my key in the room.”

Mark laughs, pulling his out of his pocket and leading them into their building. Sage’s room is the same as Mark’s, simple, with two beds and Team USA clothing strewn across the hardwood floors. The TV is pushed closer to the end of the beds, though, and Sage drops his bag onto the closer bed.

“Help me push?” Mark helps manhandle the beds into the middle of the room, so that they make one, almost king-sized space. The he falls onto one of them, toeing off his shoes and settling in just as the door opens again and Staale enters, trailed by Danny Davis. Danny holds up a bottle of Russian Vodka. 

“Whoa,” Sage takes the Vodka, pouring it into four small plastic cups. “Nice catch.” 

“Hey,” Staale grins, settling himself next to Mark on the bed. “I asked Sage to find you. Wasn’t sure he’d succeed.”

Mark shakes his head. In no other sport would competitors spend the night before a competition together, but snowboarding is special, and Sage is a particularly democratic kind of snowboarder. This weird impromptu pre-Finals hang out makes a bit more sense now. “I’m pretty easy,” referring to friendships, but Staale leers at him anyway.

Sage turns on _Fight Club_ and Staale leans against Mark’s shoulder, working on a Hershey’s bar and sipping at his Vodka. Halfway through the movie, Mark’s eyes are starting to close and, as he scoots further down the bed in preparation for nodding off, he rests his hand on Staale’s knee. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Sage staring at them, but when Mark looks over, Sage just winks and goes back to the movie. Something – a suspicion or an idea, Mark’s not sure yet – starts to wiggle at the back of his mind.

***

Mark doesn’t win Gold but he does win Bronze, and, with a broken rib, it feels like the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to him. The day is mostly a blur of Canada and feelings and media and medals and his family and, with him the whole time, body against body, touching and sharing and yelling, are Staale and Sage. They’re connected, now, the three first Olympic slopestyle medalists ever. No one will ever be able to take that away from them.

By the time the medal ceremony ends and they say goodbye to their families and head back to the Olympic Village, Mark’s knees are shaking so hard that he can barely stand. For the last hour or so, his adrenaline has been running on excitement, relief, a little bit of pain starting to seep through, and, under it all, a steady thrum of anticipation that he hopes, wonders, aches for.

When Staale stops him halfway up the stairs in their house, pushing him against the wall and threading a knee between Mark’s, Mark knows he’s not wrong.

“I have a question.”

“Yeah?” Mark wraps his hand around Staale’s lower back and pulls him for a dirty kiss that is all tongue and saliva and elation.

“That thing you said – about being gay in Russia?” Mark nods. “Want to push our luck?”

“With Sage?” Mark asks, just to be completely sure, cause this is the kind of thing that could go horribly, terribly wrong if he’s not careful.

Staale, suddenly, looks a bit guilty. “If you don’t mind.”

They’ve never talked about being exclusive, and it’s sweet, now, that Staale’s asking his permission, but, “Hell yes,” Mark agrees, immediately, biting at Staale’s lip and pressing into Staale’s thigh, letting him know just how into the idea Mark is.

“Thank you,” Staale presses his knee up, hard, grinning as Mark lets out a low, long groan. “I want, and I wouldn’t have known what to do if you’d said no.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Mark assures him. “I’m down with this. Have been for a couple of days.”

Staale’s eyes go wide, and then he’s stepping back, grabbing Mark’s hand and pulling him the rest of the way to Sage’s room. The beds are still pushed together, candy wrappers littering the floor, and Sage greets them with the rest of the Vodka.

“Olympians,” he says, grin as wide as Mark has ever seen.

“Yeah,” Mark agrees, grinning back and fingering the bronze medal hanging around his neck.

“Cheers,” Sage holds up his cup, and Mark clings it, plastic on plastic, before downing his shot. When he opens his eyes, Sage is staring at him, his tongue between his lips. “Can I-?” Sage asks, motioning towards Mark. “I mean, I know you two are a thing, I don’t wanna rock your boat, but three is better than two, right?”

Mark reaches towards the ribbon of Sage’s gold medal and pulls him forward, pressing their mouths together in a clash of teeth. Sage tastes like Vodka and Cheetos and snow, and he lets out an enticing noise, twisting his head to catch a better angle and pulling Mark closer. It’s different than kissing Staale, new and dangerous and promising the same kind of creativity Sage uses on the slopes. Mark’s whole body is trembling, and he feels Sage’s hands clasp together on his lower back, holding him up.

“Okay?” Sage asks, pulling away with a little concern. “Your rib?

“I’m good,” Mark promises, his head spinning with the knowledge that all three of them are on board with this thing, and it’s possible that Mark’s never wanted something more in his life. Except, maybe, his medal, but this seems pretty much inseparable from that anyway. 

He wants to feel them, both of them, and he reaches out blindly for Staale and pulls him in. Sage is watching, his mouth a little slack, as Mark turns his head and kisses Staale, picking up where they left off in the stairwell, tongue and heat and a little bit of teeth.

“Right on.” Sage is a little breathless, and Mark watches, a little short of breath himself, as Staale pulls Sage in. Against his hip, he can feel Staale’s erection, and he strokes him through his pants, quickly, a promise for more, before reaching out to find Sage’s answering hard-on.

Sage lets out a strangled groan, uninhibited and beautiful, and Mark wants to hear more of that. He drops to his knees, ignoring the twinge from his rib, and pulls Sage’s sweatpants to his ankles. He’s not wearing anything underneath and, looking up to make sure that this is okay, he catches Sage’s eyes as he wraps his fist around Sage’s dick and starts to stroke.

“All the yes,” Sage answers his unspoken question, his eyes wide and bloodshot, and Mark licks his lips and leans forward. Sage jerks, dick slipping past Mark’s lips, and Mark loves this. Loves making a guy lose control, loves the series of jerks and moans and breathless cries of “Mark” from Sage’s lips, loves the way Sage’s legs tremble when Mark runs his hands down Sage’s inner thighs and pulls off to press wet, loud kisses to the insides of Sage’s knees.

Above him, Sage has his hand in Staale’s pants, jerking erratically, clearly having a hard time focusing. They’re kissing, lips red and swollen when Mark can see them between quick breaths, and Mark has to press the heel of his palm into his own erection and turn his eyes away. Mark relaxes his throat and takes Sage in, far enough that he can feel Sage pulsing at the back his throat. And then Sage is pulling away, grunting, his hand tight around the base of his dick.

“You are mega good at that.” Sage’s voice is rough, and Mark feels a little spark of satisfaction as he struggles to his feet, his rib and dick vying for his attention.

Staale must notice, because he wraps his fingers in Mark’s hair, pulling him in for a kiss that’s a little smoother, a little gentler, before murmuring, “bed, yeah?”

“And less clothing,” Sage agrees, already backing them towards the bed and reaching for his own shirt.

Mark doesn’t know how he can still be embarrassed, but he is, and he can feel himself blush as he adds, “clothing gone, but medals- Keep them on.” He needn’t have worry, though, as he feels Staale shutter against him and watches as Sage rushes to comply.

Sage falls back against the mattress, all muscle and blond hair, medal shining against his chest and dick bobbing, red and wet, where it curls against his lower belly. Sage catches Mark’s eyes as he licks a stripe up his palm and then starts lazily stroking his own cock. Mark takes a long, slow moment to stare back at him from the end of the bed, shivering, himself, when he feels Staale press tightly against his back.

“Beautiful, no?”

Mark nods, not able to think as Sage’s foot lifts and begins to caress Mark’s inner leg. Staale’s hands slip under his shirt to pinch his nipples. Mark moans, thrusting between them, as Staale helps him out of his shirt, careful of his rib, and shoves his sweatpants off his hips.

“God,” Staale whispers, pressing a deep, careful bruise into the hidden spot behind Mark’s ear. “So beautiful,” and Mark knows that Staale’s talking about him this time. Which is ridiculous, but Mark’s not going to argue, not now, when he’s pressed between these men and wanting, so badly, to have their hands on him.

Staale reaches down, giving Mark’s dick two hard, almost painful tugs. “Look at his dick. Red and swollen and waiting for you, for your mouth.” Staale raises two fingers, tracing Mark’s mouth before slipping them in between his lips. Mark reaches his tongue out to wrap around the fingers and, on the bed, Sage’s hips buck and his foot stutters against Mark’s knee. “You should probably suck him, now, or he’ll come without us touching him again.”

Mark’s not about to argue with that, and he pulls away from Staale to kneel on the bed between Sage’s spread knees.

“This okay?” Sage asks, pulling his hand away from his dick and motioning at Mark’s chest. Mark had almost forgotten about his rib, but now that he’s reminded, it’s pulsing in that way that means it’ll be hell in the morning.

“Scoot up,” Mark tells him. “Just a little.”

Sage does, resting his shoulders against the wall so that Mark can stretch out on the bed and reach Sage’s legs without bending too awkwardly. He takes up the same rhythm Sage was using to jerk himself off, and then lowers his mouth again. This angle is a little more awkward, Sage’s thrusts a little shallower, Mark’s jaw already a little sore, but Sage is grunting and cussing and his fingers are digging into Mark’s scalp, so it mustn’t be too bad.

He feels Staale behind him, pressing against his back, dick slipping easily between Mark’s thighs and his medal dragging, cold and silver and real, between Mark’s shoulder blades. It pulls an obscene moan from his own lips, and he matches Staale’s rhythm on Sage’s cock.

“Fuck,” Sage takes one hand from Mark’s head to tangle it in Staale’s Mohawk, pulling, hard, and Staale grunts into Mark’s shoulder, his hips stuttering and his dick leaking along Mark’s thighs. “I can’t believe this is happening. Come here.”

Staale raises himself up and off Mark’s back, leaving Mark sweaty and cold and missing his weight. He glances up, to see Staale on his knees, one hand pressed against the wall, the other guiding his dick into Sage’s mouth, and Mark grunts, redoubling his efforts on Sage’s cock and making small, aborted thrusts against the mattress in an attempt to find pressure without aggravating his rib too badly.

The hand in Mark’s hair tightens, and he pulls up, raising himself onto his elbows, his medal dangling from his neck to bump against Sage’s dick and then Sage is coming in long lines across Mark’s chest, his stomach muscles fluttering, thighs shaking, a stream of “ahh”s and groans and obscene moans falling from his mouth.

“Fuck, sorry, sorry.” Sage chants when he’s able to speak again, reaching for Mark and sticking a finger out to gather come from the ribbon against Mark’s collarbone. Mark glances down to see his medal streaked white, and he laughs, because he didn’t even have to ask for this particular kink.

“It’s all good. Better like this,” he promises, and then Sage is surging upwards, licking into Mark’s mouth, and Mark knows that Sage must be tasting himself there. Mark groans, guttural and genuine and aching, so badly, for them to touch him.

But then Sage is releasing him and turning his head to take Staale in again. Staale’s fingers are wrapped in Sage’s long, unruly hair, his hips thrusting forward erratically, thigh muscles tightening, and Mark knows the signs. He reaches a hand out, pressing his finger into Sage’s mouth alongside Staale’s cock. Satisfied, he pulls out, reaching back to press his wet, insistent middle finger to the smooth stretch of skin behind Staale’s balls and, without warning, Staale is pulsing down Sage’s throat.

“Asshole,” Staale breathes out, but he’s laughing, a little hysterically, his breath coming fast and short. Mark traces a hand down Staale’s side, watching as he shivers with the aftershocks against his skin, groaning in defeat as Mark kisses Sage, moaning at the taste of Staale on Sage’s tongue. It’s just as hot a though the second time. “You’re killing me,” Staale warns, grabbing Mark’s hair and kissing first him, then Sage.

It remind Mark, again, that he hasn’t really been touched yet, and he instinctively presses into Sage’s hip, thrusting shallowly, painfully.

“Fuck, hey,” Sage wraps his fingers around Mark’s hip, stilling him long enough to flip them over. “Let us do the work now, yeah?”

It’s not really in Mark’s nature to let others work harder than him, but giving up control worked a few weeks ago, and he surrenders himself to their hands. He’s not going to last very long, anyway. He feels like he’s been hard forever, since around the time he finished his second run, and his body is on edge, jumping at every touch as Staale traces his fingers over Mark’s chest and Sage mouths a path along Mark’s hips. 

Mark loses himself to the sensations. And then Sage draws his index finger into his mouth, wetting it, before dropping his hand to trace along Mark’s ass at the same time as Staale bites down on his collarbone. Mark comes, shaking, into Sage’s fist, catching Sage’s chest and chin, and blacks out. 

He resurfaces, warm and clean, what must be at least a few minutes later. The sheets are pulled up to his waist, the lights are off, and he can feel strong bodies pressed against him. He groans and Staale leans over him.

“Okay? We lost you there for a bit.”

Mark flushes. “Yeah, good.” He flexes his muscles, taking stock of the aches in his jaw and chest, but, otherwise, “I feel great, actually.”

Staale laughs and, on his other side, Sage bends to press an open-mouthed kiss to the bruise around Mark’s broken rib. Mark feels a surge of emotion and he pulls Staale down into a messy kiss, before turning and pulling Sage up and into one that’s equally as messy. 

When he pulls back, he glances down at the medal still hanging around his neck. It’s still stained and he reaches up a hand to trace over the ribbon.

Staale flinches. “Yeah, we tried to clean that, but-” He shrugs. “We tried?”

Mark laughs. “No, no, it’s perfect. Wait ‘til I tell Craig that I screwed Russia’s anti-gay law by actually screwing.”

Staale shakes his head, holding back his own laughter, “asshole,” at the same time as Sage grins, “righteous.”

Mark shakes his head, still laughing, but the day’s events are starting to weigh on him and he yawns. He curls into Sage’s body, careful of his rib, and presses a kiss to Sage’s ear.

“Sleep.” Staale orders, settling against Mark’s back. “We can fight the world’s injustices again in the morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you wanna chat about chill snowboarders having sex, comment here or find me on [tumblr](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
